僕を彩る物全て ( Tomorrow)
by yatagarasuoh
Summary: It's been so long since he last had the space around him to himself, and now Rivaille finds that the emptiness and the dark are nothing more than strangers to him now. [eruri]


**僕を彩る物全て ****(** **Tomorrow)**

* * *

When Rivaille is first introduced to the Scouting Legion, he feels like a piece of meat under the scrutiny of their gazes, like livestock determined to be slaughtered. The hairs on his neck are standing on end, and he wants nothing more than to take a dagger and rake it across all of their faces. But his knife has been taken away, and the hands clamped over his shoulders are hot and heavy, like chains and iron brands carving fate into his skin.

"This is Rivaille," Chief Irvin says, and Rivaille stares back at the wide-eyed group with a scowl. "He'll be a part of the Scouting Legion from now on, so take care of him."

"But chief," says another man. Rivaille can see the fear in his eyes, the hesitance painted over his mask of indifference. "Can we trust him? He's not even a trainee, from the looks of it." He's used to hearing this, seeing the body language for everything that a person dares not say. On a whim, Rivaille calculates how long it would take to grab the man's neck and snap it, how long it would take for him to cover the distance between them. It would be easy to just to steal one of those long blades and make his escape, maybe kill a few of them for good measure. What's a little more blood on his hands when no one cares?

"No, we cannot trust him. But I will hope that he will be able to put trust in _us_."

After introductions the people disperse, and Rivaille shies away from the flames when a torch is lit nearby. The sparks sear into the ragged cloth of his pants and he hisses at the sting. He's used to wandering about in the darkness, and the sudden burst of light is strong against his sensitive eyes. It burns a bit, and Rivaille turns and hunches away from the brightness, unwilling to follow.

He starts when a warm cloak is draped over him, and despite his resistance, the heat wraps around him like a soft cocoon and draws him in gently. It seeps deep into the marrow of his bones and the corners of his sharp mind. But he cannot allow himself the leisure to relax around all of these people, not yet.

"It's cold outside the walls at night, so you best just take mine for now." The Chief smiles at Rivaille and he's taken aback by how trusting the older, taller, and much bigger man seems. They both know that his size is only a slight disadvantage if he was to attack; his speed is enough to do some serious damage. And yet the man shows no signs of tension in his broad shoulders, no wariness in his posture whatsoever. It's like he doesn't expect Rivaille to do anything, and that realization burns through his pride like a vat of boiling acid. Right when he's made up his mind that he can't just stay still, the Chief speaks. "I'm not going to stop you if you decide that you want to do kill me or anything."

His words are low and whistle through the crisp air and through the crackling edges of flames. "But if you do, there won't be anyone left to look after you. The people here and there don't understand you, and what people don't understand, they fear. What they fear, they will try to eliminate at all costs. It's why humanity has survived for so long. You have the strength to go up against the titans and fight, but humans, while lacking in strength, pound away at the mind. They're going to tame you, bend you so far back you'll be breaking in half. That's the ugliness in humans. Do you want to risk that? That fire in your eyes," he taps his own forehead lightly, "Do you really want to lose that?" As Rivaille stares, he swears that he can see memories of fallen comrades and death flickering in those bright blue eyes, subdued by the dark curtain of night. He quickly turns his head to the side when he feels that gaze move to rest on him, opting to inspect the fireflies in the distance, their intermittent flashes of light that remind him of blades in the dark.

He snarls into the cloudy skies, "I'll kill them if they touch me." And like this, a silent agreement is made. There is no need for words in a compromise made by two overseers of death. The sigh of wind through sparse and fallen leaves can be their tabooed promise.

"Alright," the chief says, and the issue is never mentioned again.

* * *

The morning comes with all the hues of murder and gold, tipping over the brim of the horizon with spears of sunlight lashing against skin. Rivaille stares at the skies as they change colors, inhales sharply when the light finally makes contact with his extended palm. It's not his first time being exposed to this at all, but he still can't get used to the way that his skin prickles and his eyes water slightly. His shoulder blades tingle when as he watches the birds flitting about, wings spread so far open that a sliver of tomorrow seems to be nestled within their vibrant feathers.

"Good morning, Rivaille," the Chief greets him as he's walking towards the assembly. He pauses when he sees Rivaille hesitating behind a stone pillar, unsure of whether he is allowed to make an entrance in front of all of those people. "Come. After some breakfast we will teach you how to use the gear. That's the first thing we need you to do, get acclimated to the environment."

Rivaille finds it strange to have someone actually talking to him, nonetheless greet him in the morning as if it's something that has always been done. He half expects to be dragged to where everyone else is, but he's merely left to follow. It's his choice, whether he wants to go or not, and the chief is fully aware of that. Rivaille could choose to leave if he wants to, but he has nowhere to go to now that his roots have been torn up from the ground. This is the only place he's being offered a chance at living, not expecting to die everyday with the weight of backstabbing hands and foul mouths pressing down on his shoulders.

It grows silent when he walks into the crowd, loud chatter falling to a deathly standstill as his stare rivals many others. He knows how to stand his ground alone, yet this is different. These are people who are faced with the possibility of dying every second just like he is, people who have already accepted each other and have no room in their hearts for another wound. Rivaille doesn't even know why this brings such fury into his mind; he's been through this and more before. Perhaps he had expected something more from a group that someone had promised him a future in, or maybe he had been tired of having to watch his back so often.

He makes a big show of shoving people aside and out of his way as he storms through the chitter and the chatter and the gossip. It's hard to care when he's spent his entire life not giving a fuck, and he doesn't want to care either. Not when he's rejected everywhere he goes because of the defiance in his eyes, the blood on his hands, the shadows behind him.

By the time the sun has already risen high into the sky and the Chief finds him in the upper reaches of a tree, his fingers are numb and scabbed rom the countless times he's bitten and gnawed on them. He has too much pride to say that he's hungry, too much pride to say that everything hurts. Instead he spits down towards the ground, missing by too much to say that it was a good effort, but at least he knows his spiteful message has gotten across.

"Rivaille," the Chief says, words kind and soft-hearted. It's the wrong mix for work like this. The Chief is bound to get his feelings trodden on and broken with how caring and gentle he is. It's weak. Rivaille hates being weak. "The others have gone out for a bit. It's just us now. Why don't you come on down and eat? You don't even have to eat if you don't want to. Just come down. You could get hurt." He wants to laugh bitterly and say that he can't get hurt anymore, that he's immune to stupid physical pain like that now. But that lie has slowly been falling apart with each second spent away from what he's grown up with; he feels each burn more than ever now.

"No," he huffs, and crosses his arms for emphasis. Rivaille bites back a wince when his raw hands rub harshly against his shirt. He's wondering why he's not being forced to the ground. For all he knows, with that fancy gear that looks more like a trap than anything else, it would take all of five seconds to drag him kicking and screaming down from the tree.

After a few more moments, he can hear a defeated sigh and the soft tread of footsteps retreating into the distance. For a second, just a second, he is terrified that he has been left behind, that even the Chief has given up on him. His lower lip starts to bleed with how hard he's worrying it, digging his teeth in so deep that the hurt numbs his senses and bleeds into his head so he doesn't have to think. He doesn't want to admit the agony of truly being left out alone. And so, trembling, Rivaille closes his eyes and tries to lull himself to sleep. At least if he falls and breaks his neck, it will be a quick death.

But with how seconds seem like hours, who knows how long instantaneous death will feel.

* * *

When he wakes up, the sun is setting and his stomach is protesting with hunger. Rivaille takes a quick glance below to see if anyone is there, but there is nothing but a small package and what seems to be a green blanket. He clambers down quickly and scans his surroundings to see if there is someone waiting to jump out at him. When the coast is deemed clear, he wolfs down the bread and the meat, nearly choking in his haste and gasping with the burst of flavors on his tongue. Rivaille knows who exactly has left out the food for him, yet at this point he is too tired to care. He doesn't bother cleaning his mess and snatches the green fabric up, unfurling it to reveal wings.

He spends the night in the tree curled up with the cloak wrapped around his shivering shoulders, wondering how long I would take for him to hit the ground if he was to jump. Morning comes with the song of birds and a call of 'good morning' with a voice too familiar and too nice. Rivaille never bothers to answer and presses his back into the tree bark behind him until he is sure that no one is there. Only then will he climb back down and eat the meal set up for him before clambering back up. He knows that doing this is stripping the last of his meager dignity from him, knows that it means he's submitting. But at least it'll be on his own terms. He can only hope that the Chief's patience will not run out. Bringing three meals a day and then some to a rogue who's only known the life of a thief is no easy feat.

This continues for four days. Rivaille knows this because he's been counting each and every sunrise and sunset that bleeds through the gaps between his fingers. By the fifth sunrise, he's given up his perch in the branches and sits on the cool grass waiting, letting the breeze leaf its cold fingers through his long, unkempt hair. Dawn is breaking over the shroud of clouds and dew is wet on his skin.

"Good morning, Rivaille," the Chief smiles. He doesn't sound disappointed or angry, more relieved at the fact that he's finally within reach. "Do you want to start training?"

They don't need words for this either. Chief Irvin steps ahead and Rivaille is left to toe his own way past the footprints left behind, gauging his pace to see if things are too fast or too slow. There's no coddling, no coercing, just waiting. If Rivaille stops then blue eyes will turn back and stay until he's ready to move ahead. If the rhythm of his easy walk changes the slightest bit, muscled legs will take longer strides. It's a game of seeing whether Rivaille will keep going or give up, and there's always challenge with the expectancy in that gaze, freedom offered up in overwhelmingly big palms and invisible wings.

He supposes that why he's given in to Chief Irvin, though. At least this way, he has something to look forward to.

* * *

The first mission Rivaille is sent on is one of the Scouting Legion's failures. Though the successes have risen in percentage, they are still dominated by the bigger chance of not returning with a fulfilled objective. By now he's well known throughout the branch not only for his nasty temperament, but also for his skill in using the 3D maneuvering gear. He gets tired of hearing their hushed whispers behind his back; many of them still cannot trust him, and constantly make an effort to put him in the spotlight with whatever chance there may be.

But this time, no one has the energy to make sassy comments. Everyone is bogged down with the exhaustion yanking at their screaming muscles, the fatigue snapping straining tendons. Running into several aberrant titans has taken a toll on the group, and it is scarily subdued as they trudge their way back to the main gates. Rivaille may be used to seeing people killed, murdered even, but the sight of human slaughter is nothing he has seen before.

The wind is a merciless whip against their skin, and Rivaille suppresses a shiver when the long strands of his uncut hair brush below the nape of his neck. The gear that now weighs him down at the sides of his thighs is still unfamiliar, still too heavy for Rivaille's usual empty-handed-ness. Now it seems as if he's been forced into protecting something that has never protected him in the first place. Why is he a guardian for the government that had never cared for him? He can hear the hushed whispers of the people as they stare at the wounded and the glum expressions of the soldiers. It's maddening to known that the people speak of the horrors so lightly, unaware of the brutal truth that possesses the force of jaws that crush hope.

After the injured are sent to the hospitals and the Legion has dispersed into their respective groups, Rivaille moves to start polishing his blades. The way shadows fall over his face is comforting, as if he remembers the way darkness used to be his protector, but his fingers still tremble when he reaches up to brush his hair out of his eyes.

"Your hair is too long," Irvin says as he approaches, fingers reaching out to fuss with the tangle of Rivaille's dark hair. "We should cut it. It could get in the way when you're out there." When Rivaille looks up from wiping down his blades, he's startled to see the bright shock of blue watching him intently. The deep crimson of sunset from outside the windows casts strained shadows across the angled planes of the Chief's face, fabricating the illusion of a gaunt skull. It makes both of them look unbearably tired, exhausted from the weight of humanity's burdens crushing their bodies, their minds (their hearts) (their souls).

"Not much I can do about it," Rivaille shrugs, swiping the cloth one last time over the dull edge of the swords in his hands. "And it's fine the way it is. Leave it." He pauses when a body steps in front of him, craning his neck to meet Irvin's gaze. Rivaille hates always having to look up; he's done that his entire life, and he's tired of it. He swallows the surprise jumping in his throat when Irvin kneels down so that their eyes are level, expression blank yet serious.

"No, you'll get hurt." Irvin reaches out again to stroke the ragged strands of unkempt hair. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Despite Rivaille's protests that he can cut his hair on his own, he's dragged to the Chief's quarters and wrested into a chair that seems to be stuffed to the point of bursting. A scowl twists his lips the entire time that rough hands are running through his hair, clipping away with measured movements. He's unused to having other people touch his head, and whenever those fingers graze across his scalp, tingles rocket through his body like electric shocks. Though he tries to ignore the unfamiliar feeling and squash it down under irritation, Rivaille catches himself leaning heavily into Irvin's touch several times.

"See? Wasn't so bad now, was it?" And his head feels so much lighter. There are no longer shaggy bangs obstructing his vision and the back of his neck is cold from the feel of air blowing on his flesh. And, Rivaille realizes, that means that Chief Irvin's countenance is all too clear and distracting. He thinks that he's realized a bit too late that there's no escaping now.

"Good morning." Irvin smiles as Rivaille stares up at him, incredulous.

"It's almost evening," he points out, but the Chief shakes his head.

"It's like a good morning," Irvin hums happily, cleaning up the materials and fallen strings of chopped hair, "because we've started a new day. We're tired, yes. It's almost night, yes. But you've just given up a very dark and personal part of yourself, and that's like washing everything away to reveal a sunrise, no?"

"Tch," Rivaille grunts, and doesn't mention the warmth blossoming through his chest.

* * *

The water should be cool relief to his throat, but all it does is burn. It is acid running down his throat, searing his insides like unquenched fire. Sunset is a bloodbath and they are all soaking in it, drowning in it, falling victim to the distortion of reality. When the last of the bodies are retrieved and set down, the flames rear up, hands rising up as plumes of thick smoke. The taste is bitter and rancid on tongues, like tears.

Weariness weighs down Rivaille's eyelids, his body feeling so sluggish that every minute movement is a colossal effort. The swords in his hands slip and fall onto the round with a dull clatter, and the gear that he's now grown accustomed to seems to drag him down into the earth with every step he takes.

"Good morning," Irvin greets him again, wearily. It's a strange routine, but it's become so familiar that Rivaille can't find it in him to question it anymore. The Chief has always had a habit of saying that to him whenever possible before noon—or even after noon and well into the evening—whether he had already said it before or not.

"Why do you say good morning all the time?" He had asked once.

And Chief Irvin had given a mere glance his way before continuing to stare at the sunrise before them. "Because it truly is a good morning if I can see someone and tell them good morning. Maybe it'll be the last thing I ever say to them, the last thing that they'll hear from me. And if I can at least give them that good memory to take to their graves with them, then I'm willing to say over and over."

"That sounds like something parents would teach a kid." And Rivaille had been bitter. Maybe if he had been raised with the guidance of other people he wouldn't have turned out this way. He had sensed the slight alarm in Irvin, and had spat yet another retort. "Don't say sorry. Don't take pity on me. Don't you fucking _dare_."

Rivaille knows that the Chief doesn't pity him, but he had been so used to defending himself with sharp words that their reoccurrence was inevitable. He nods silently at Irvin but keeps his lips sealed shut. He isn't so sure if he's welcome or not to return the greeting. Plus he's too tired to think at the moment, the last thrums of battle fading away into the distance.

"How long do you think it'll take for these wings to expire?" Irvin's eyes are closed, but Rivaille can imagine the sadness in them all the same. "I've already been flying for some time now. Don't you think it's about time that they give out?"

Suddenly the tiredness evaporates from Rivaille, and he feels an unexplainable fury deep down in his bones. "I swear," he snarls, teeth flashing. "I swear if you die on me I will—"

"I'm not going to die on you," Irvin laughs, flicking Rivaille on the forehead. But it's easy to hear the uncertainty, the 'what-if's that define their every day. It can't be helped, however. They live in a world where tomorrow is not guaranteed. Every breath and each heartbeat is only a brief, meager handful of tangibility. One moment they are flesh and bones, and the very next they could be nothing but memories. Long ago, back when Rivaille knew only the feel of untamable rage at the people and blood on his fingertips, he did not care. It's a bit frightening to know how much things have changed.

There are times that Rivaille wonders if living like this is really being alive though. Is living in absolute fear for the next day actually living? Some of them are in the Scouting Legion because they don't want to die; others because they want to make a difference in the world; there are even those who are here to save face. As for him, he isn't sure what he's here for. There really is no reason for someone from underground like him to serve a purpose for the world above. The failure of the underground colony experiment fuels his hatred for the government, and maybe that is why he is here, fighting against mankind's biggest fear, (fighting to eliminate the chance of not hearing 'good morning' when he wakes up everyday).

"You aren't going to die," he announces quietly, but loud enough that Chief Irvin can hear him over the noise of inside the walls. "I'm not going to let you."

Irvin smiles at him again, but the 'what-if's are still there, and the 'tomorrow isn't a promise' is a piece of reality that Rivaille doesn't want at all.

"I won't," Rivaille insists, but his words echo, too hollow to be true.

* * *

The morning is silent and eerie, weak sunlight filtering through thin glass and rustling leaves. The tin of coffee in his hands had at first burnt his skin, but he had held on as if he could not feel the stinging, searing pain ripping through his nerves. Now the black liquid is too cold to drink on his empty stomach, and Rivaille watches the ripples dance through the surface of the stale coffee. Rays of the cold sunrise leave a bright reflection on the shadows.

Normally the colors of a new day would be calming and refreshing, but now Rivaille finds them rather dull and chilling. Even when fingers of light caress his skin with a gentleness he already misses, the coldness does not disappear. It only seems to worsen with each breath that he takes alone. The wind whistles a sad tune. It's been so long since he last had the space around him to himself, and now Rivaille finds that the emptiness and the dark are nothing more than strangers to him now.

There are other people that he has to take care of, and there are other people to take care of him. But there is something missing, something a little bit too empty in the space that he has given away to someone else.

Tomorrow is not a promise that can be kept.

"Good morning," Rivaille calls. Waits.

But there is no one left to answer him.

* * *

"僕を彩る物全て、無くしても君だけが 微笑んでくれるなら何も欲しい物なんてない 。

Even if I lost all that colors me, if only you could just smile, I couldn't hope for anything else."


End file.
